Profile
by Leonaria Dragonbane
Summary: Okay, I am going to be upfront right here, i don't know if I'll finish this one. She gets into their heads, tracks them and takes them down, now she's tracking a father and son, and it is all personal. Will she take them down, will her personal hate cross the line.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, I'm posting this one, I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it so read at your own risk. This is a dark, dark thing and I'm not sure I want to, but I would like feedback on it. I know, I'm sick and twisted.

She sat at her desk, glancing up at her calendar. Three months and six days, give or take, that was all she had left. She looked at the notes in front of her.

**Tall, over six feet five inches: blonde, but kept hair short so it would look darker, when long either worn free of restraint and full of natural curl, like the mane of a lion on the savannah, when restrained, sleek and controlled, bound back, each hair meticulously in place.**

She glanced up at the calendar again, this time focusing on the date. Eleven years today, eleven years since her father died. She could still remember so clearly, the final look on his face as he struggled to breathe, her satin sash wrapped around his throat, her hair pin she'd begged her mother to let her wear to church, wrapped at the back in the sash, tightening it until her father's eyes seemed to bug out of his head, his face turned purple, his lips blue, even his gums and tongue blue as he struggled to draw a breath before collapsing on the floor in front of her.

She could still remember every sound, every smell, no where near as sharp as she could today, but she remembered the face of the man that killed her father, she remembered his words, remembered the hate that burned in his eyes.

She looked back at the paper in front of her.

**He is a prolific killer, with over ninety-five percent of his kills legal, sanctioned, and completely within norms. It is the other five percent that we will look at today.**

She stopped and scratched out that last part. "That we will examine." she said as she wrote the words.

**There are three distinctive types of kill, the professional kill, meticulous, clean, neat, almost obsessively so; the rage kill, disorganized, unprofessional and with little attempt at cleaning up or disguising responsibility, up close and personal, the victim sees it coming; and the sexual kill, sloppy, disorganized to the point of being almost manic or accidental, many of these victims are simply worn out, over used sexually, raped repeatedly over and over. The two things that the rage and sexual kills share in common is the plethora of DNA evidence left on the victims. He doesn't care if people know who killed them, and in the case of the sexual kill, the copious amounts of evidence available on the bodies hints at either a very intense and psychosexual impotence in other aspects of his life - or something darker, something even more primal than his rage.**

She looked at the calendar again, this time the flash caught her by surprise.

_"You killed him, you little freak. He's the reason you were born, he's the one that had to die, to keep from corrupting the gene pool any more. It wasn't your poor mother's fault you're a freak, it was him, his damaged genes."_

_His breath stank, and the unkempt sideburns on his face made her skin itch as he whispered the words in her ear, holding her tight with one hand, the other twisting the hairpin at the back of her father's neck. She wanted to whimper, wanted to beg, but she didn't. She wasn't a freak!_

_She stared at her daddy's body until the police came. She didn't cry, even when her mommy and big sister did. She didn't move, didn't take her eyes off that spot. She hated him, the man that killed her daddy, and someday she'd kill him back._

She shook her head. She never did. He was untouchable, especially now, and she needed to concentrate on the case in front of her. She had three months and six days to solve this one, to find this killer. She'd already profiled the other one, the one that killed her father. She knew who he was, but couldn't touch him, couldn't get to him to make him pay.

She pushed the rage and anger and hate back into the ugly black box she kept it in, and forced herself to look at the page as she wrote.

**He prefers athletic women with high levels of endurance, marathon runners, bicyclists, power walkers, weight lifters, extreme sports enthusiasts. He doesn't have a physical type other than they must be in excellent shape.**

**Unlike other killers of this type, he doesn't find shame in his sexual release, in fact it seems he uses it to mark his territory.**

That was one thing that always bothered her when she worked on a profile, male killers usually always came in their pants, rarely could one of them think long enough to unzip their pants and whip their cock out so they could clean up easier and not feel the sticky, drying semen on their skin. This one was different, especially with his sexual kills. Some of the women were literally so full of his semen that it overflowed.

She glanced at the television, the news on mute but showing two women kidnapped in a local park, both runners, one training for an up coming marathon. She knew she'd have to lay her trap soon. He was on the prowl, picking partners, picking the competition.

She glanced at the second profile on her desk, the one she'd put together years ago.

_**Narcissistic, sexually gratified by the kill, extreme hatred of mutants, will go to any lengths to torture them, even to the point of letting them live and killing those around them. He is tall, with naturally dark blonde hair with red highlights, silver grey eyes and bad breath. Like most male serial killers he gains sexual release from the kill, and like most he feels dirty and ashamed afterward, causing a cycle of guilt and remorse, which builds into hate for his targets, causing him to need to kill again, both to punish them for making him feel guilt and for being what he never could be, a mutant.**_

She looked at the top of the sheet. Suspect Name: Graydon Creed.

She looked at the profile in front of her. Suspect Name: Victor Creed.

She let her lips part in a smile of pure hate. Some day there would be a day of reckoning, someday her revenge would be complete. But not today. Today she had to cull the field, today she had to make sure she was the next woman taken.

She slipped into her exercise clothes and filled her water bottle. She strapped on the helmet, and opened the front door. Her mountain bike was chained to the railing of the front steps of her apartment building. She hated the damned thing, it always made her uncomfortable to ride it, but by God she was going to get the damned suspect's attention, if she had to hit him with a sledge hammer.

XXXXXXXXX

He watched her ride by again, that was the sixth lap of the park today. She was definitely on his list. He thought about the other two, locked away in the special room. He was beginning to doubt he'd ever find what he was looking for, but for now, he was going to enjoy the attempt. Every year about this time he tried, like a primal urge, he knew it was out there, his perfect frail, but he'd never even come close. They lasted a day, sometimes less, no matter how long they could run, how much weight they could lift, they just couldn't survive his needs.

This part of the park was deserted, it was just a narrow trail through the woods, easy to grab her, easy to hide the bike, easy to transport her away. He'd been doing this almost fifteen years, he had it down to a science.

As she came around again, he tossed a Frisbee onto the path, causing her to swerve and lose control of the bike. He waited until she stood up and dusted herself off, and prepared to mount the bike, when she was most vulnerable and off balance. A simple blow to the back of the neck and she was out, the bike dragged into the underbrush and covered for removal later, and no one the wiser.

He carried her to his concealed car, and tucked her neatly into the trunk. This one was compact, but he could feel the heft of her muscle. Her scent was strange, almost primal, and he could feel his growing reaction to it as he closed the trunk. He might have to try this one first...but the others were waiting. He grinned, he didn't know if he wanted to try to collect a few more, let him have a good week of pure sex before he had to hunt again, or just play with his three frails and see how long they lasted.

He adjusted his pants as he climbed into the car, his hair slicked back into a leather holder, his three piece suit a perfect compliment to the highly expensive luxury sedan he was driving. He hoped the other two were finding their accommodations comfortable, he always provided them with plenty of exercise equipment, to keep their endurance up, until he was ready to play with them.

He thought about the one in the trunk. She seemed a little different, she'd ridden at least six or seven laps around the park, and had barely broken a sweat. Even in the closed space of the car, he scent wasn't that strong, it was light, like an ocean breeze just when the wind turns inland, before the heavy smell of salt, like the smell of rain right before it starts to fall, but there was something else, something that tingled at the back of his mind, something familiar.

XXXXXXXXXX

She woke in the trunk of a car. She'd never even heard him coming. She knew she had to play this right, had to feel fear, had to let her scent carry her fear to him. All she could feel at the moment was triumph, and she forced herself to push that into the little black box as well. Her moment was almost here. Soon she could forget that deadline on her calendar, soon she wouldn't be facing her own death.


	2. Chapter 2

Profile 2

Sorry so short, but so appropriate for the day.

xxxxxxxxxxx

She actually dozed off; when she woke it was in a room. Her nose told her there were two other women, scared out of their minds. One was sobbing uncontrollably, the other rocking in a fetal position, wailing a high pitched keen.

Their fear was so thick she wanted to gag; so much for competition. He liked them defiant, wanted resistance and fight. The victims that gave in died the quickest.

She sat up slowly.

"We're gonna die." The one keening said, finally.

"Not if I can help it."

"We've seen his face; he's going to kill us." She wanted to slap the woman. That was true in only fifty one percent of cases.

"Actually, since he usually leaves plenty of DNA on his victims, knowing his identity won't make any difference." She sat up on the cot, and swung her legs over the side. She stretched, posing for the camera mounted in the twelve foot ceiling. She could reach it, but the other two probably didn't even know it was there.

His trophy, now she knew, he recorded them, let them break down before he raped them.

"Shut up." The sobbing one said. "I don't want to know who you are, I don't want to be here, and I don't want to hear anything." She lunged at the keener, ripping at her hair in desperation.

Angel sat back, this explained some of the extra wounds on some of the bodies, and he would pit them against each other, and then rape the winners first. She couldn't wait to turn in this profile. He liked strong women, ones that didn't break easily. She knew as soon as he saw the tape she'd have his interest.

She leaned back on the cot, watching as the cat fight settled down into two women desperately clinging to each other for support. She looked up at the camera again.

"Enjoying the show?" She asked the invisible eyes watching every move in the room.

There was a sudden clang and one part of the wall slid behind another and a shelf with three food trays slid into the room. Another fact to add to the profile, he kept them fed and hydrated; the trays were accompanied by high electrolyte sports drinks.

She stood slowly and walked over to examine the food. One tray was vegan, one balanced whole grains and protein and the third seemed to be nothing but protein, and rare, just the way she liked it. She allowed herself a little smile. He provided for special dietary needs as well.

More and more these sexual kills seemed to be about something other than just dominance and rape; he went to a great deal of trouble to tailor the experience for each woman.

She sat back on the cot, and, under the glare of the vegan, cut thick pieces of almost bloody meat from her meal with her claws and dangled them over her mouth before dropping them, and savoring the juices. He's seasoned it with some type of grilling spice mix she'd never tried before, and was wondering just how long she could drag this out, just for the food.

She heard the camera as it switched focus, and she knew he was planning something. She only could hope it was to let the others go and take a chance on her.

Xxxxxxx

He watched the feral, taunting the others with how she relished the meat, he'd been watching all day, their scents surrounding him from the special ventilation system. The other two smelled of sweet fear, one even stark terror, he knew he would have to fuck that one soon. The third, her scent kept him hard, kept him moaning with every move she made. She was perfection, her body moved in ways designed to keep him in raging need. He had to know, had to see if she could take him, if she could be the one, could she be the mother of his child. He'd already decided he would use the other two to take the edge off, he wanted time with number three, wanted to take his time, and one hand gripped his throbbing erection through his pants. After they ate, the games would begin.

Xxxxxxxx

He smiled at the crowds, waving and pumping his hands. He still missed the old days torturing mutants, but if this campaign panned out, he'd get his chance again, and his beloved father was on the top of his list. He had a small fanatical army, ready to spring into action as soon as he gave the order, and he planned on a nice private binge of torture.

"Mr. Creed, the press wants some photos." His campaign advisor said.

He nodded, and turned and gave his best vote winning smile to the cameras. Ten more months, and with careful planning and a few dirty tricks he would have the key to move into the most important house in the country.


End file.
